Delusion Disorder Daydream
by James Ray Edwards
Summary: What is fragile and subjective? Red and Blue? Delusion and dream? Let it entangle and make all the finest actors in a grand play of many parts upon the world's stage. : A Drabble-tastic Collection of stories :
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer:

I do not own any of the creative properties used in the creation of this work of fan fiction. On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further ado, let's get on with the show!

The Witch-General's Warning:

Read at your own risk. Suspension of Disbelief is required. Re-edited slightly with a missing line.

* * *

Delusion Disorder Daydream

Victorian Romanesque:

Tsundora

A When They Cry fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

* * *

When was the first time I met Her? the thought occurred to me then, as I swaggered through the stone tiled paths of the palatial rose garden of Purgatorio's Highever Court, a place of privilege for the powerful and the nobility.

Golden roses blossomed artfully in the crisp Autumn air under a bright noon day sun, though the novelty of such grand ostentation had worn off on me ages ago, for this occasion wasn't the first time I was perusing its majesty. Many times, I had come here, in all seasons and salutations: sometimes for tea under a verdant arbor, other times a quiet word in under the secluded eaves and arches, and rarer yet, a serene moment by the fountains winged by angels and demons. Today, though, was special, a day I would never grow tired of, no matter how many Fragments I happen across.

That's right. It was Fall when I met Her, always, in the time of the Lord's year when the boundaries of Inferno, Paradiso, and the Human world were weakest. As the kind of people who dwell almost exclusively in Purgatorio, it shouldn't have been a problem for us to meet at any time, but phantoms being phantoms, it wasn't easy for us to just leave our haunts at will. Even dust and echoes have their responsibilities in the grander scheme of things, or so I've been told time and time again by Her---well, my Teacher now, plus the last thing you want to see a tax collector from Hell or Heaven.

Both kinds are the worst, trust me, but I'm getting off track here.

"You know, off-the-record," I began the hour in an abrupt _crescendo_, "has anyone ever told you that you're so---_Tsundora_?"

My approach had been stealthy as any ninja, with a bit of magic to quiet my steps. Our dear lady did not even know I was stepping into her privacy, stewing no doubt about having been called out here all of a sudden. The missive I sent anonymously had some rather scandalizing photos on it that just couldn't be---ignored. Of course, I considered our surroundings, so she couldn't just dash over in her nightgown, for the tea party, even as tempting it would be to see Her incredulous figure in a see-through baby doll. _Iihihihihi_!

Beatrice bolted up the table in the arbor right at the sound of my catcall. Her chastised expression a sweet red conflagration of outrage and embarrassment from being caught offguard by the sudden presence of her interloper, and his teasing words. The atypical Beato dress she wore suited her perfectly, as always, its priceless silken folds knotted in her fingers, protesting gently at her bubbling anger. Oh, how I savored the fiery sight, like a common sleazeball, to the hilt.

"W-Why... I never!" but enough was enough, and Beatrice put her foot down with a sharp offended crack, "I demand your name, you boorish bastard!"

"_Iihihihihi_! I thought you'd never ask, my cute miss priss!" I laughed her off in defiance of the obvious deadly consequences, offering a mock flourish of my great cape in a bow. Being torn apart by her hand was pleasant enough, and one my simpler guilty pleasures in this long difficult journey. "Count Assam is my name, and it's my pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Madame Butterfly_, the cruelly fair Lady Beatrice."

The delivery was a bit more brazen than I do usually, the name chosen randomly on impetus, but what can I say, I was feeling adventurous that day. It wasn't often I got a chance to tease my cute Beatrice the Golden. See, traveling across circumstances and fates just to find her even once is an awful lot of hard work, and I find it harder still to believe that _that _Frederica Bernkastel, did this so naturally as if she were breathing air.

"Assam~, is it?" Beatrice smiled, her blue eyes gleaming dangerously as sharpened daggers. "Phwah! Never heard of it, and when I have my way, which I will... NO. ONE. ELSE. EVER. WILL!"

Again, I laughed, affecting that slight sly, smile I had seen Ronove wear so many times that said he knew a lot more than he let on, which was perfect for infuriating people with a hair trigger reflex. "Awww, give it a rest, Lady Beatrice. Can't we save the killing each other part until later? I mean, I don't think we're THAT _in~timate _yet. Besides, this is a tea party, right, Double-Oh?"

In a splash of gold that morphed into golden butterflies, my shadow for today's outing took her place at my side in the usual parade ground regalia of Pendragon's divine troops, the glorious Imperial Guard Corps. Fair-haired Siesta 00, the model of discipline, wouldn't be found less than impeccable now. Even the homely picnic basket in her charge, gained an air of dignity as befits a weapon, held at right shoulder arms, though its delicious contents was meant more to satisfy the body and soul than kill. ...at least, that's what Ronove promised me, anyhow.

"Yes, My Lord!" she greeted, squaring her heels together sharply.

Any retort sharper than that practiced movement, honed by her haughty wit, died in Beatrice's throat in a unladly-like flabbergasted splutter. The appearance of a Siesta Sister was nothing to laugh at in Purgatorio, for it marked the summoner with eminent prestige, justifying that my title wasn't just for show. I was genuine, and Beatrice fumed!

"There's nothing intimate or lovey dovey about two people killing each other!!!" she decried my impudence vainly in a decidedly high, shrill voice.

Stifling a chuckle, for what fun it was to see my Golden Witch so indignant, I nodded to Siesta 00 to hand off the basket to me and follow at my shoulder, before joining the lady inside the arbor. Like a pugnacious cat, she hissed and reared up against my intrusion from across the table, but it only made me bolder, as I made myself at home and set the table for three.

"Did you know our Double-Oh here's brilliant with the harp?" I said, reaching into the basket for my trump card, which has never failed me thus far. "I brought her long to accompany us just today's occasion."

"You do me too much honor, Battler-sama," was Siesta 00's humble reply, as she waited dutifully for Beatrice to sit first. In my own home, it would have been a different story, but since we were out in public, some appearances needed to be kept for prying eyes, just in case.

The Endless Witch paid no heed to our easy rapport, though the open invitation didn't go unnoticed by her. However, she was waiting still for my move, clearly, with some dreadful trepidation. And not one to keep her waiting, should poor Beato perish from boredom first, I unveiled my hand.

"_Iihihihi_, relax; relax, Lady Beatrice! I'm a firm believer in Plato, don't you know? ...at least when it comes to relationships: '**you can discover more about a person in a hour of play than in a year of conversation**.'"

Chess and **Red Text**.

"So how about it, Beatrice the Golden? A game of chess, over black tea and snacks, against the dastardly damned scoundrel, Count Assam, who has entrapped you here? _Iihihihihihi,_ I won't let you go~ home until you beat me~!"

Beatrice stared wordlessly. Most people would have been put ill at ease by such a seemingly out of character reaction, coming from the Endless Witch, but...

"_KYAH_~_hahahahahahaha_! You fool. You god damned bleeding fool!" my Beato howled out of the clear blue, dropping all pretense of elegance and supposed nobility. "You propose a game of chess. Against. **Me**? The Endless Witch, Beatrice, who toys~ with life and death on a whim? Interesting. How very interesting! Tee hee hee, _hiya_~_hahahahahaha_, it's absolutely not boring at all~!"

So, our "pleasant" game began, again...

* * *

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer:

I do not own any of the creative properties used in the creation of this work of fan fiction. On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further ado, let's get on with the show!

The Witch-General's Warning:

Read at your own risk. Suspension of Disbelief is required.

* * *

Delusion Disorder Daydream

Purgatorio Rondo:

Cruelty the Mother of Ingenuity

A When They Cry fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

* * *

_The Golden Land_.

According to the Witch's Epitaph, at least what it might mislead a human to believe. It should have been utopia: a paradise beyond one's wildest dreams that would deliver the pilgrim from the decadent vices of a material world. With ten tons of gold, the eternal happiness of a hundred humans would be assured easily, but in practice, the reality could not be any further from such flights of fancy.

There, in a majestic golden rose garden where the sun never shined and the rain would fall for all eternity, amidst a lonely desolate storm, only two "people", if they could be called such a thing, were allowed to take party here. They and their invited guests alone, to be more specific; all others were denied passage and left to wander forever, without succor or rest, in the labyrinthine hedge rows that protected the inner sanctum of the garden, like the high walls of an impregnable fortress, patrolled by a legion of merciless goat-headed "gardeners".

Today's wistful tea party consisted of but three, the Pilgrim, the Governess, and the Hostess of this gathering. All present sat in convivial silence in the shelter of the arbor around a table with fragrant black tea, snacks, and a chess set. The battle of White and Black seemed to be at the height of its climax, but each time the final blow would land, the red-haired young man would glance up, shaking his head with a wry smile, and turn the chess board around.

To what end he did so was a riddle exclusive only to him and the fantastic golden-haired doll seated across the way in a beautifully adorned deck chair, as his opponent. Female and far larger than any fantasy a noble's daughter could wish for, "She" was a work of art divine and unholy all at once, garbed in the finest silks and lace, and gilded with precious fiery gold. At any moment, it appeared "She" would spring to life with haughty laughter that lost its trifling elegance the longer she prolonged it, but---those bejeweled eyes, like sapphires, reflected nothing, nor would her supple lips confer a reply.

Had it not been for the subtle rise and fall of her bosom, the occasional gesture, or movement of her lips, one would have suspected the Hostess to be no more than a large doll. The proper description, however, was no less heart wrenching: a living doll, a "person" who has lost the will to live. No words or feelings would reach her heart, save perhaps the cool release of death.

Something that Ushiromiya Battler would never allow, until their game has been settled, and only---by his own hand. Even so...

"_Heh_, I guess," chuckled the Endless Sorcerer, leaning back into his chair, "I. **am**. a little disappointed _**you **_didn't recognize me, even with Double-Oh's slip up."

Virgilia paused in her knitting, which appeared to be the makings of a somewhat oversized woolen scarf, sensing it was her time to speak at last.

"The Endless Sorcerer BATTLER-Goldsmith is an entirely different entity from Ushiromiya Battler, Battler-kun. You may resemble him in appearance, but the manner in which you feel, smell, taste, the true ways a being of fantasy tells its kind apart, is no longer the same. Therefore, it should not have been much of a surprise that the Beatrice of this happenstance did not associate you with her Battler, a forgone conclusion we have seen through the various Fragments, many a time."

"I know-I know, but I just thought, maybe, this time _**you**_," again, he addressed his words to the Beato across the table, "would've figured it out. I mean, I've seen _**you**_ have that feeling of deja vu plenty of times, but this Beatrice, she..."

The Endless Sorcerer affected another sullen sigh, much to the Finite Witch's private bemusement. What a romantic fool you are, Battler-kun, but we do not particularly dislike that about you, do we, My Master? so she thought.

As adorable, he could be in such a dour mood, such amusements are not meant to last. Battler now fixed his attention to other matters, for a monarch was a constant gardener of his kingdom.

"_Ne_, Virgilia..." Battler inclined his chin at her, with a cursory wink.

"Yes, Battler-kun?"

"Even after all this time, I still can't believe you did something _**that **_outrageously cruel, again."

Admirably, the Finite Witch managed to hold her poise at the sudden question, though in the inside she was doing some tens of thousands worth of bewildered flip-flops. "Well, dear me, how I fear gambling is a most sordid, **evil **habit for young people these days! Surely, you do not suspect me of encouraging it?"

"But you knew about Knox's Decalogue at the time, didn't you?" the master's chair seemed to have slid closer to the witch's proximity at some point, unbeknownst to her, as he leaned over with a fist propping up his chin, like a flame-haired devil, debonair and mighty.

"Oh ho ho ho... In my venerable age, I admit I sometimes become sentimental and spare myself the uglier details of my wild youth, Battler-kun. As a principle, responsible adults try not to delve too deeply into past flings and misadventures, for rarely do assumptions turn out well."

Wild, Flings, Misadventures, and Youth... Battler gave a bit of start at such an incredulous statement, with a flat stare. Definitely, those were words he never dreamed would come out from that maternal-to-a-fault Virgilia's mouth, but it was not as if he could not recover his initiative now, could he?

"I think my image of you just let out a _moan_..."

"B-B-Battler-kun! How filthy of you!!" Beato's Teacher flushed bright red as any coquettish schoolgirl.

"_Iihihihi_, I never said what kind of moan it was~!" he flashed a smug toothy smile for good measure.

Cornered in his clutches, Virgilia floundered, with a somewhat disappointed sigh. Perhaps, she had underestimated his persistence just a touch, and blundered badly for it. "_Mu_...!"

"Still, that was really harsh, Virgilia~."

Then again, having come this far, the witch felt inclined to part with a few insights herself, for such was her way.

"But it was necessary, was it not? I am Vergilius, and it is my duty to take Dante to the top of Mount _Purgatorio _to meet with Beatrice, no matter what the cost. Of course, I knew the risks, but without risk, there can be no reward. I think I won the gamble splendidly if I do say so myself."

Battler thumbed his chin in careful consideration. I think I'm starting to see what Ronove fancies about her, and I don't know whether to be frightened for the fact I was on the same wavelength as him, or to be frightened of a new development to Virgilia the Finite Witch.

Having answered, the said witch now thought it fitting to attack with a question of her own, "Speaking of which, are you certain she is the genuine masterpiece, truly?"

The Endless Sorcerer acquiesced, proudly. Fair was fair, after all.

"Of course she is, approved by the Number One Beatrice fan of all Time himself no less, after I labored on her for a _Thousand and One Nights _non-stop, _iihihihihi_! ...**blegh**, I thought I was going to die for real."

"It would explain an after touch of gray in your eyes as of late."

"Ehhhhh!?" he gasped, rearing back as if appalled, a hand over his heart. "You're kidding!"

"Did I imply it to be dislikeable, Battler-kun? Oh ho ho ho!"

"Erm..." Battler groaned, feeling small and bashful. Maybe he had bit off more than he asked for to tussle with Virgilia, the previous Golden Witch, in a game of wit and "truths".

"I happen to favor impetuous gentlemen, with a hint of experience. Their _impassioned _travails will never bore me. I will almost carelessly admit it is something of an addiction to watch and hint at riddles for the young and purposeful, though it does little to curb the heartbreaking horror when they fail the gambit. It is my _price_."

And that was Virgilia's so-called "Magic", huh? _Potential_.

Ushiromiya Battler chuckled, bemused by the lesson, and in an uncommon gesture of empathy that stunned the witch, the Endless Sorcerer grasped her dainty slender hands. Shockingly cool and hot to the touch, like freshly fired porcelain, he blinked as if awoken by an ocean spray and rouge graced his Teacher's cheeks in an equally uncommon display of girlishness. Who knows? Maybe Ronove does not have questionable tastes, eh?

"Have a little faith, Virgilia-_sensei_," come to think of it, there was only a handful of people that he meant it, really, when he addressed them as such, "if we can get those **two **back, I'm sure we'll succeed in reviving Beato this time. I was an idiot, like usual, not seeing the signs that were right in front of me. Beato's Hate. Beato's Love. _Iihihihihi_! That's just like the way humans are, right?"

Virgilia groaned, veiling her embarrassment discreetly, with an elegant gesture of her ruffled sleeve.

"Oh, impetuous young man, has no one ever taught you proper courtesy and custom?"

"Nope, I'm all self-taught by _Cruelty, the Mother of Ingenuity_."

_Iihihihihi_!

* * *

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer:

I do not own any of the creative properties used in the creation of this work of fan fiction. On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further ado, let's get on with the show!

The Witch-General's Warning:

Read at your own risk. Suspension of Disbelief is required. Also, WAFF and Angst content is unusually high this entry. Slightly re-editted. Sorry, brain fart.

* * *

Delusion Disorder Daydream

Purgatorio Rondo:

Pathos

A When They Cry fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

* * *

Satan of Wrath was without a doubt, masterfully crafted furniture and beautiful to a fault in all her ruthless cruelty. As the third eldest of the Seven Stakes of Purgatory, Beatrice the Golden's finest tools made for the expressed purposes of whimsical murder and fun mischief, she charged herself with the duty of keeping the rest of her rascally sisters in line. Being "born" with a pugnacious demeanor fit for a livid Doberman, Satan could have reigned supreme with an iron fist, certainly, but she would be---illegitimate.

Like it or not, the sisters acknowledged the fact that Lucifer would always be their eldest sister, regardless of how she might dread and cry in private at a potential usurper. The latter squirming, they enjoyed as any sweet scent of prey on the hunt, though the sisters knew not the reasons for her insecurity and could only guess. Another unshakeable fact, none of the Seven Sisters of Purgatory understood each other, truly, a shabby association created by their mistress, and over time the name stuck.

It was a relationship of convenience, based on professional courtesy, and the fact they were all crafted by the same meister. Getting along to get by, and before anyone was the wiser, she and the others found themselves in the present norm, taking after their "Names" and emulating the cruel glamour about them, such was the expedience of Furniture. However, Satan was not the kind of "Demon" to be satisfied by mere petty consolation, for the roots of her strength ran deep---from regret.

Then came the grudge, festering and black, giving birth to true wrath, her rage righteous and pure. Satan hated the facade around her, the corruption that had subtly tarnished and shaped her being into the caricature she was today. None of what she was did she desire: a name of beauty, hair fine as the first morning star, and a noble mien fit for a monarch, all denied. Instead, Satan of Wrath was a hag-haired rabid bitch, chaffing in bondage, shouting and screaming for someone, anyone to yell back at her and understand the silent words from her heart that she could not speak.

So why must her name be foul to the ears? Why must her hair be pale as a pernicious beldam making the eyes tremble? And why must her countenance be fit only for a shabby thug that the soul would resolve to fists and spite?

Satan of Wrath sighed. The Tyrant lived alone and died alone, never to be understood, so she thought once, then things had changed, quite suddenly, almost as if a miracle had occurred. Ruby-red eyes drifted listlessly to the object clutched in her "paws", an insignificant foppish thing, material and transient: a box of dark chocolates, no bigger than her fist, gift-wrapped in gold, not too cheap and not too expensive either. Truly, it was over a hundred worlds ago when she received them by the off-chance, yet the memory still felt fresh, like yesterday.

She never opened them, and with a touch of mischievous black magick, the Furniture had them preserved, more or less, for eternity's sake. Satan need not see to know every millimeter of the contents within, after all she was a masterfully crafted tool, with senses that could put any pitiable creature to shame. Her only shortcoming, perhaps, was the lack thereof courage to imagine what it would be like to taste that which she forbade in her own hand.

How ironic the sender had been an "Angry Idiot", much like herself, probably what drew her to him, as hunter to prey in the first place. They were compatible existences, Furniture meant to serve, and opposite sides of the same coin: Wrath, without and within. That said, the odds of them actually understanding each other were still improbably low. Those who are filled with rage cannot be bothered with liminality. The act alone was already self-fulfilling. Complementation occurred as long as both parties were willing to hurt each other more, an enmity that does not end, vicious yet pure.

Indeed, Satan of Wrath had felt satisfied by such boorishness, her loneliness quelled for a time, only to revive with a vengeance, when all became cowed by her septic haranguing. Everything, of course, changed after the Golden Sorcerer's "walkabout" to Mount Purgatory to meet with Lady Beatrice, an absurdly unlikely dream, but it happened. There he had learned of "Pathos", and likened to Moses, he returned from the peak to teach it to the people. The effects were not immediate but the changes were profound.

Satan would have never conceived of the impulse to deliver her Valentine's so---bluntly. Then again, she was poor with words that did not wound or cripple, so perhaps, it was just as well that the Furniture spoke only as necessary. To think that taciturn Furniture, made by a human, would reciprocate to her desperation at all was beyond her wildest expectations.

Still, a piece was a piece: the real Kanon died a long time ago, felled by her very stake. She had stalked in the shadows of Rokkenjima for as long as Lady Beatrice's entrapment, bristling in exasperation at the unfit prey all around her. All weak, all soft and too squishy for her tastes they were. Oh, how she would have rued the day with damnation and disgrace, when it came time to hunt them. Thus, Kanon's arrival had been veritable miracle, a beast just like her.

His hunting had been a climax of ecstasy. Her many hours of study and preparation had all lead up to that sudden violence, and it was glorious, fulfilling the purpose she had been created to execute! And to think she would be afforded the privilege to hunt him over and over again, because one stubborn idiot refused to bow down to her mistress, Satan's whole being had trembled in almost reverent euphoria; innocence.

How naive she was then, if the Furniture had known that first kill was to be the beginning of her obsession, Satan wondered how she would have howled in dismay instead. Verily, nowadays, she swore she was not much different from that crybaby klutz, Leviathan, always fussing with big crocodile tears about some trifling pettiness that would ignite inevitably into a hysterical fracas. Hardly model behavior for an elder sister, yes?

Oh, regret. Regret. Regret. REGRET! Satan's eyes blazed like hot coals, a frustrated snarl tugged at her full cheeks. If only I hadn't killed that fool... If only I hadn't listened to Battler-sama at that time... Then-! Then I could-!

Yes, Satan would never have learned the heart's bittersweet ache.

"You can see him anytime you want, you know? Who knows, if everything turns out for the better, maybe you two can even meet in person, though---I can't vouch that Jessica will just give him up without a fight, _iihihihihihihi_!"

Satan's cheeks flared red, as her eyes flashed to the source of the cocky voice that called out to her secluded arcade, adorned in vines and venerable masonry, truly a rare sanctuary once privy only to herself. How shameful! To think she had been so absorbed in introspection so as to have not sensed **His **approach through the Golden Gardens, where the tears of the dark, melancholy sky fell gently, _pitter_-_patter_, without end on the cobbled paths.

"B-Battler-sama!" Satan fell to one knee in hurried genuflection, eyes down, pocketing away the incriminating gift. "Do you require-"

His easy bemusement grew louder, a mark of achievement that she would have been proud of under normal circumstance, for the Endless Sorcerer too had become a dark creature, whose true self subsisted now in the ambiguity of _Purgatorio_. He was no more immune to the fatal cancer of **boredom **than her original meister.

"C'mon, relax-relax, and stand up; it's just me, right, Sacchan~?"

Oh, that damnable master of hers, did he have to bring up that nickname for her? ...though, it was kind of cute. J-Just a little! I-It was not as if she liked it...at all.

"If you wanted," Satan tried to compose herself with a gruff cough, but discovered exasperating difficulty in meeting the Golden Sorcerer's twinkling gaze, "you could've summoned me any time, My Master. I'm not Lucifer-neesama, but even I think you need not---exert yourself unnecessarily to find me in person. Magick is its own conve---elegance, yes?"

She would condemn him, if he were not already damned in the first place!

"I would, but~," Battler answered her challenge in a suave drawl, and joined her beneath the arch to her private thrill and disconcertion, "Ronove, Virgilia-sensei, and Luci-chan are always harping to me in no certain terms that sometimes---I should be _accommodating_, too. Demons and fiends from Inferno always come calling on me about their problems, but for our best clients, I guess it makes sense to roll out the red carpet and anticipate their needs, too, eh?"

To be accommodating, is it?

"Sacchan, I had a hunch you wanted to talk to me today, so~ here I am: Battler-kun will listen to anything you have; my face, hair, lap, and arms are all yours to monopolize, _iihihihihihi_!"

Again, Satan of Wrath blushed but for different reasons altogether.

Truth be told, even she had developed a terminal infatuation with BATTLER-Goldsmith, the Endless Sorcerer, the devil-may-care man who succeeded the shadow of his former self, Ushiromiya Battler. Journeying for over a thousand years in search of his archnemesis and---something more, naturally, had transformed him forever. Certainly, he resembled that White Battler, the piece, but all comparisons ended there. Now wise beyond his apparent years, he had become the "Black King" in a cool three-piece pinstripe suit, fit for any brilliant bastard, with a regal entourage to match, pimping out life and death to anyone who can afford his "price".

Payments could not be more or less than the work performed, for there existed a balance in "The World". Battler abided by "The Code", and he took his contracts seriously, because for any transgression that may transpire, both he and the client were held liable. A difficult proposition, but the path has brought him immense power and prestige. Favored such by causality, few dare to cross the goodwill of the Endless Sorcerer, lest he be resurrected from the ashes to extort his rightly deserved "pound of flesh".

Rage, after all, was one hell of an anesthetic. For Satan of Wrath, it also made for a serious turn on, like animal magnetism really. If Lady Beatrice could see the Inglorious Basterd now, the Furniture had to wonder how she might swoon in the majestic presence of this very, very _dangerous _man.

That said, Satan had an image to keep and her eyes darted about dubiously, as if anticipating some disgusting voyeur to materialize out from the shadows. There were none, so...

"Very well, I'm yours: _dance with me_."

A little known fact, Satan of Wrath loved to dance and was an excellent one at that too, even while wearing boots. It was the closest thing she had to a real hobby, though the Furniture would never acknowledge her investment into the art as such. After all, Satan learned to dance because mastery of the body was critical to fighting, and the fact, it allowed her to put one leg up over BATTLER-Goldsmith was just an added bonus.

Predictably, her partner gave a wounded smile at the proposition, but complied nevertheless. He would hate to disappoint, and Battler refused absolutely to keep a girl waiting on him. It was adorable after a fashion that he was still bashful partnering with her, though Satan admitted she could be a bit too **passionate **in the heat of the moment. Ahem! Their lessons had been a highly confidential affair, private and not to be seen by anyone else, even while Battler labored during the day under the instruction of Gaap, Ronove, and Virgilia, not to mention the eager attentions of her amateurish sisters.

Oh, how Satan had laughed inwardly at the spectacle, relishing at their incompetence.

That said, due to room constraints, she opted to lead for a simple "One-Step" dance; no dips. It would be extremely disgraceful, if her master happened knock his fool self unconscious on a column, while she took charge. Keep it slow, sway, use the tempo of the rain, gently, feel the rhythm, right foot leads, one step, turn, one step, square, one step, turn, and now a little sway; that's it; now, Battler was loosening up. How could any hot-blooded man be so tense in beauty master crafted by the late Beatrice the Golden? Agh, just ludicrous!

"Phew... I forgot what a thrill it was to dance with you, Sacchan," Battler confessed to her with a boyish chuckle.

Trying to charm the boots off her feet already was he? Satan clicked her tongue. "Enchanted I'm sure, Battler-sama, but you won't get off the hook so easily for trying to surprise me."

"_Trying_, you say? Man, and here I thought I succeed, considering you don't seem to mind my hand on your-"

"Keep it _there_, if you want to keep your hand, _**My Master**_."

Well, he never heard a leopardess purr before, but Battler suspected it would probably sound something like the sultry trembling emanating from Satan's throat. To be frank, she was hot; seriously too **hot**, like magma hot: compared to the other sisters of purgatory, all equal in comeliness but personality-wise was a different issue. Even after all this time, it was still hard for the sorcerer to figure out whether he was going to find her slender hands in his happy place or a stake driven through his skull.

Satan was explosively volatile like that, and Battler would not want her any other way.

"One of these days, you really should offer to take Ronove for a _spin_. _Iihihihihi_, the scandalized look on everyone's faces would be priceless~!"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I like my secrets, Battler-sama."

So much for trying to break the awkwardness gently and elegantly, Battler supposed this result was a sign that he still needed more training in the matters of the heart. Oh, well...

"Sacchan, I mean what I say, it won't kill you to give Kanon a chance."

Satan furrowed her brow, "Kanon's **dead**. You saw with your own eyes where his soul is consigned to Purgatory, in my court. The _other _Kanon...was just a convenient piece, a caricature."

"Satan, you can't go on like this forever," Battler retorted with a meaningful look. "Even as great as I am, all of this could end tomorrow, and you'll be the one left holding the phone that won't answer."

She was not convinced otherwise. He should have expected her reaction though, after all Satan was created by that Beato of his, and everyone knew about her legendary obstinacy. So clearing his throat with an easy chuckle, the Endless Sorcerer opted for a different approach.

"C'mon, it's not your way to leave things unfinished, Sacchan~! ...Not that I'm saying it's going to be easy. Kanon did realize at one point that he loved Jessica, and with that said, using a little Hempel's Raven, who's to say he can't love someone else to? It's already been established he's capable of love, which is a miracle unto itself, eh-eh?"

At those wishful words, Satan wavered, her eyes shifted uncomfortably, as a flush to match those ruby red irises came to fore. It appeared he managed to find a weak point in her almost impregnable defenses.

"But he---IT is a piece."

Still, she was not about to go down without a fight.

"Pieces can only behave within the limits of their archetypes, remember? Besides, it'll be a good experience for the both of you, whether in misery or joy. ...unless you'd rather turn out like me?"

Love unrequited, torn asunder by tragedy and treachery? The experience had changed her master drastically, a man on fire, possessed by a rage barely contained by the finery he wore. Could Satan of Wrath, too, bare the agony of the metamorphosis into a regal beast that would be as quick to kill as it would to protect? No, she was not a being of that caliber, only humans can become monsters, after all. Certainly, Satan had no envy for his quarry, when he caught with them, inevitably.

The dance ended in the rain, and the master embraced her simply and warmly, as if a parent shielding his child from the cruelty of the world.

"Sacchan," Battler sighed, his lips curling roguishly into a wane smile, "I'm probably the closest person to knowing the real you, and I promise: it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. It's true that you didn't find love exactly in an ordinary way, but where would the fun be in that?"

And so, Satan of Wrath shied away from those old eyes, with a sulky groan, burying herself in his scent in the hopes that she might forget it all. Yes, it would have been better if the Golden Sorcerer had been her first. At least, she could be certain he was real, right here, right now, within her grasp. He would not disappear in the morrow when the Furniture---no---the lonely, destitute girl woke in the cold morning.

"I said it before, but I'll say it any time you want me to; no matter how embarrassing it might sound: Satan of Wrath, you are gorgeous. Your hair is like precious platinum woven into strands of silk. Know that there are no names more fitting for the ruby-eyed huntress, her certain gaze vivid and sanguine, as the finest burgundy wine that the foeman would waver, intoxicated by his last breath."

She did not have to yell at him. He understood.

"_Iihihihihi_, c'mon, let's go back to the mansion before Teacher gets antsy and sends Ronove to fetch me," Battler caressed her hair in long affectionate strokes. "I did just bow out on Prince Orobas in the tea room all of a sudden, and you know how that excitable fellow is just _**crazy **_about me. ...I'm worried he might actually follow through some day and take-me-home, like he's always gushing about."

_Pathos_.

* * *

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer:

I do not own any of the creative properties used in the creation of this work of fan fiction. On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further ado, let's get on with the show!

The Witch-General's Warning:

Read at your own risk. Suspension of Disbelief is required.

* * *

Delusion Disorder Daydream

Purgatorio Rondo:

Way of the Devil

A When They Cry fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

* * *

_Snicker_-_snicker_.

The Kitchens (yes, plural: **Kitchens**) were not an environment where the voyeuristic observer would find the Master of the House, by all stretches of common sense.

_Snicker_-_snicker_.

His appearance would require special circumstances, or perhaps negative feedback, for such grandiose households usually had a Mistress or three to see to such trifles in the first place.

_Snicker_-_snicker_!

Playing host to officious delegations was a serious business in the so-called upper walks of life. In fact, one's reputation could be said to live and die by such functions, well before any words on matters of grave import are exchanged. Therefore, to discover Lord BATTLER-Goldsmith washing dishes in the Kitchens was quite the incredulous spectacle.

"You can stop holding back, Ronove," the redhead fixed his partner-in-crime, at the basins, with a profuse tic in his brow that conjured images of fangs and smiles. "You're too old to be giggling like a dirty old fart, eh~?"

Both of the fantastical beasts had shed their usual finery for plain clothes, aprons, and the sleeves of their solidarity folded up past the elbows like badges of honor. The plates and cookery piled on high, one after another, emerging as if by magic from the soapy bubbling overflow.

"My, how heartless of you, My Master," Ronove feigned hurt, as if struck straight through his heart, "I was merely bemused by your adolescence, thinking how you have become more like a true sorcerer brings me endless satisfaction, and that the sweat of my brow was naught in vain!"

"_Iihihihihi_, what do you mean? I haven't done anything of the sort."

"Giving out advice that you have no intention of following yourself? That is the superb way of devils and fantasy!"

"No way. I was just giving some young people a push in the right direction," Battler sighed dubiously in a middle-aged sort of way. "The last thing I wanted is for one of Beato's favorite rascals to grow bored and disillusioned. She'd harp at me nonstop for days and plot some mean prank at the same time, for mistreating her '_toys_' on loan."

"And here I thought it occurred to you that you acted out of the goodness of that black hole you call a heart."

"Everyone needs love, Ronove, even _Furniture_. Besides, I haven't lost anything but have gained just about everything."

"Ho? And all that is missing..."

"...is Beato. When she's returned to me, I'll have rightfully succeeded to the old geezer, with no more strings attached, and I'll turn things around for good."

"_Pu ku ku ku_, I thought you cared not for wealth, Battler-sama?" Ronove arched an accusatory brow at his master, who carried on washing with a lazy shrug.

"Having what I need to live comfortably was good enough for me, but now that I've come this far, I've got no choice. George-aniki was right all along; being a good adult sure is tough. Too bad all the supposed adults in my family really are just kids."

"And you will rectify the mistakes of the past?"

"Count on it. Money draws all kinds of blood, good and bad. If it's just me, then I don't mind being the one to do what's necessary to protect everyone's future."

"How do you propose to accomplish such a feat?"

"By becoming a demon, of course," Battler beamed in an easy matter-of-fact fashion, handing over a pair of wet knives and forks for drying. "The old geezer only knew how to kill things. I can love you one second and kill you softly, gently with the other hand; that's the difference between me and him."

"_Pu ku ku ku_, I see how most frightening you are, My Master, just like a king."

"Say, just how are those two young people doing?" the sorcerer then asked of his demon butler, as if the thought just occurred to him.

Ronove, of course, knew better than to pry. After all, it was the way of devils, too, to come about face the roundabout way. "Satan of Wrath has done quite admirably to conceal her more frequent overtures to Mount Purgatory."

"Not well enough, if you've noticed."

"Oh, it was none of my own tomfoolery, Battler-sama, _pu ku ku ku_."

"Ah, that's right. There is a fickle someone around here who just loves that kind of gossip."

Elsewhere, a devil of questionable morals in a fashionably questionable dress sneezed, snorting a spray of black tea in decidedly undignified manner at the fuming governess across the table.

"Is she happy?" Battler reached into the soapy suds and pulled out the stopper.

The Laughing Monocle made a face, his humor souring like the groaning drainage at the loaded query. Why did his master always have to level the cruelest questions at him? He was a devil, not a love therapist!

"That is..."

"Hu~mor me~, Ronove, my head henchman."

The demon prince could not very well deny a request from the Golden Sorcerer, his fabulous master of whimsy, if it was within his power to grant it, could he? That would be a breach of his Devil's Contract. Oh, rot his luck!

"As happy as a dumbstruck puppy can be, licking at the toes of its forgone master, methinks."

"Great!" Battler beamed with a toothy grin, and totally unrepentant of the serious of unfortunate events he may have just set off, for the faithful seeking repentance on the steppes far below. "I guess, that guarantees me some chocolates for Valentine's in this Fragment's year."

To think His Lordship, BATTLER-Goldsmith, played Cupid for a box of red; what a capricious child. If he wanted some, well, Ronove would be happy to make arrangements, just like he did for the first annual Stakes' Valentine's Day. Gosh, that smashing 1986 of Oktoberfest really was an excellent year! If the Demon's Roulette rolled in his favor, he might even get some this year from-

"So, looking for~ward to something more than _Duty_ _Chocolate_ this year from 'Li~a? _Iihihihihihi_!"

Who in the HELL let that slip? Certainly, he had admitted once to his master that the elder _Beatrice_ was a Witch (and a woman) who had tirelessly entertained him for centuries, but never had he said he expected anymore than a relationship of convenient happenstance. Such fanciful notions of wild romance, Ronove swore to take to his grave!

Imagine the scandalous tabloid headlines: "Royalty falls hard for Slave Girl! Just how low can you go?" So whodunit?! Huh? Whodunit? And howdunit!?

"Oh, wow," Battler deadpanned, staring at him with vapid duplicity.

If it were not for the infernal contract, the smoldering, red-faced butler would have set himself upon his master right now with teeth and nail.

"You just got suckered, Ro~no~ve."

...huh?

* * *

To be continued...


End file.
